


In the Palm of Your Hand

by nishizono



Series: Sleight of Hand [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-22
Updated: 2011-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:04:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His fingers are sliding over the neck of his beer bottle in a way that can't be anything but filthy, and if it's possible for a human to spontaneously combust, then Arthur is well on his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Palm of Your Hand

They miss their flight to Sydney. It's just the two of them, sitting in the hotel bar, drinking away the hours until the next flight out and chatting like the episode in the bathroom never happened. They're at the counter together, talking about all the things they wanted to see in Paris but didn't, gossiping about the other members of the team, and--

And Arthur _still_ can't stop staring at Eames' hands.

It's not like he's never seen them up close before, but it's different now, in the dim light of the bar, surrounded by lazy chatter and blanketed in the warmth of two glasses of whiskey. Eames' gestures are slower, elegant, nothing like the quick, broad sweeps he uses when he's talking about a job. He's just gotten a manicure-- his nails are trimmed short and buffed to a shine-- and Arthur stares at his fingers when he traces them around the rim of his beer bottle.

Eames glides a finger up the neck of the bottle, chasing a drop of condensation, and Arthur lets out an involuntary little moan.

“Ah,” says Eames. His gaze is sharper than it should be after all they've had to drink, and he glances at Arthur's mouth before saying, “Yes, I'd been wondering about that.”

Arthur wants to say there's nothing to wonder about, but that's just pride and instinct talking. They'd both know he was lying. He shifts on his stool and looks away, licks the scotch off his lips and looks back just in time to see the flare of _god, fuck, want_ in Eames' eyes. And just like that, he's aching for it.

“Aren't you going to ask me?” says Eames, tap-tap-tapping his fingertips against the side of his beer bottle. They're wet. Arthur catches a glimpse of the moisture on Eames' skin and licks his lips again, wonders what Eames would say if he reached over, grabbed Eames by the wrist, dragged those fingertips up to his mouth and sucked the wetness off them.

Arthur's jaw clenches and he forces himself to meet Eames' gaze. “Ask you what?”

“The manicure,” says Eames. “You've been wondering if the manicure is for you.”

Every inch of Arthur's body goes hot, and fuck, his cock is _throbbing_ as he plucks an ice cube out of his glass and sucks it into his mouth. He watches Eames watch him, curls his tongue around the cube and licks the scotch off his fingers, moves the cube to the inside of his cheek and says around it, “I don't have to ask, Mr. Eames. You've been showing it off all night. You're fucking shameless.”

“Jesus Christ, Arthur.” Eames whispers his name like a curse and his eyes are fixed on Arthur's mouth. His fingers are sliding over the neck of his beer bottle in a way that can't be anything but filthy, and if it's possible for a human to spontaneously combust, then Arthur is well on his way.

“ _You_ still haven't asked _me_ ,” says Arthur. His voice is ragged, like he's spent the last two hours screaming Eames' name.

The smile Eames gives him is slow, too dangerous to even be called predatory, and he leans in so close that Arthur can feel it on his skin when Eames whispers, “I don't have to ask, darling; you're so fucking eager for it I can _smell_ it on you.”

Arthur grabs at the bar to steady himself, lets out a soft, startled little noise that would mortify him if he wasn't busy squeezing his thighs together so he won't come in his pants like a teenager.

“Yeah,” Eames breathes, “yeah, just like that, Arthur. Just like that.”

And Arthur is so fucking close to turning his head and shoving his tongue into Eames' mouth, but the loudspeaker above the bar crackles, and a woman's voice is saying, first in French and then in English, “Now boarding for British Airways, flight 1535, non-stop to New York.”

Eames pulls back, and for just a fraction of a second, he looks as wrecked as Arthur feels. But then he's turning away and sliding off his stool, and Arthur is having a serious case of déjà vu until Eames looks back, over his shoulder. He gives Arthur a head-to-toe that makes Arthur's toes curl, and says, “L.A.”

“L.A.,” says Arthur. He watches Eames saunter out of the bar and into the terminal, then knocks back the rest of his scotch and slides off his stool. The glint of Eames' beer bottle catches his eye. Arthur glances at it, considers, then slides his fingers through the condensation dripping down the side. It's cold against his lips, and he shivers as he licks his fingers clean.


End file.
